saved from something like regret
by finaljoy
Summary: Natasha painted and framed pictures, and Clint did whatever to make ends meet. They were just normal people. Except for the fact that sometimes he picked locks and broke into businesses. And she definitely maybe was a retired con artist with a bounty set on her head by her vengeful uncle. AU
1. the thing that meets the eye

_AN I have had this idea banging around my head for **forever,** and I am so excited to finally publish it (which is hilarious, because it's been gathering dust on my computer for months, ugh). Like, oh my goodness, art and dorky people and casual romances that are_ _NOT super angsty,__ what am I to do._

_Just consider this the second installment in my unofficial project of AUs were Clint and Natasha are broken people shuffling along and meet each other, and become a little less broken after some hard work and tender loving care :'D_

* * *

When she first met him, he was soaked.

Well, not _soaked,_ but wet enough to make him more than unwelcome in her home. Clint Barton had barreled into Natasha Romanoff's life with a huff of smoke and a few too many drips in her door way, and at first, Natasha would have been more than happy to see him leave it just as quickly.

"I'm here to pick up a painting for Barney Barton," he panted, leaning against the wall. Natasha glanced him over, but refused to open her door beyond the unfriendly inch she had already allowed. He kept wiping his hair out of his face, as the water clinging to the strands kept weighing them down into his eyes. She could smell cigarettes every time he exhaled, which was more often that she'd like, as he was slightly out of breath, presumably to get out of the rainstorm outside.

Natasha didn't _like c_igarettes. She had tried them when she was fifteen, decided they were for idiots with nothing better to do, and moved on. Plus cigarette smoke ruined paintings, an act she could barely stand.

"I haven't framed anything for someone named 'Barney' all month," she said. In all honesty, she knew who he was talking about (the exact painting was on her desk, about fifteen feet away from her), but in the thirty seconds she had known him, Clint Barton hadn't endeared himself to her. She could be difficult and not feel guilty.

"Right. How 'bout Bernard?"

Natasha hesitated, then opened her door further. She didn't exactly _want _him dripping in her apartment, as he would then be _her_ problem, but she did want to follow through on her job.

Natasha walked back to her desk, picked up the painting, then returned it to Clint.

"Here," she grunted, holding the painting out to him. He took it absently, craning his neck to see further into her apartment. This, though a little rude, was not wholly unexpected.

"You...frame all of these?" he asked, nodding at the myriad of paintings covering her walls. Natasha glanced back at them, and sighed.

"Only the ones I painted. The rest are originals from other artists, and came pre-framed. Do you have a car?"

"What, you painted some of—sorry?"

"I said, _do you have a car_?"

"Uhm, no, not here. Why?"

"Because I am _not_ letting that painting out into the rain. Not when it did _that_ to you."

"But it's just a squall, I mean, it could be gone by the time I'm outside." Clint glanced down at himself as he spoke, a small frown on his face as if wondering if he was really that much of a mess.

"And it could also go on for much longer. This painting doesn't leave until the rain stops."

Admittedly, the painting that Bernard Barton had had her frame wasn't the most expensive piece that had passed through her hands (it also was not the most expensive piece she had been asked to frame), but it was the principle that counted. Someone had taken the time to make that piece, and moreover, this Bernard person had spent both time and money in not only picking it out, but also having it framed. She would give it the respect it deserved. Natasha certainly knew that she would have a fit if someone wantonly traipsed through the rain with one of her paintings.

"So...I have to stay, too." Clint had this wrinkle in his brow that wasn't quite displeased or confused, but more along the lines of mapping out the rest of his evening according to this setback. After a short pause, he nodded, and gave her a smile. Natasha had to admit, despite the cigarette breath and wet clothing, his easy manner was growing on her. A little.

"If you want," Natasha said, shrugging and turning back to the main room. "In either event, close the door behind you."

Clint chuckled and gave a soft "Yes, ma'am..." as he shut the door. He set the painting down by her coat rack, then stood still. She didn't really want him there, nosing about and getting her carpet wet, but the weather wasn't his fault. She suppressed yet another sigh, and walked to her linen closet. Natasha returned with a towel, and found that Clint had politely stayed in place to limit the amount of water he spread around. Natasha barely kept herself from cocking an eyebrow as his manners mounted in his favor. Okay. She still didn't want him there, but she would also be able to do more than tolerate him.

"There's a heater around the corner," she said, gesturing. "Take your shoes off if you want to stand in front of it."

Natasha walked back to her work desk, and settled back into place. She ignored the sound of him drying off, then settled into her rhythm of painting.

"You've got a lot of really gorgeous pieces in here," Clint said. He sounded like he was in the living room, and Natasha tried to ignore the intense feeling of discomfort she felt when strangers wandered through her home.

"Thank you. It's difficult to work with such lovely things and not indulge yourself here or there."

"Ha, I know that well enough. Though, I can't really say my _indulgences_, as you put it, are that innocent. Or cultured." Clint appeared around the wall separating her dining room/acting studio and living room. She watched him, and couldn't help crack a smile. After years of living and interacting with narcissists and megalomaniacs, a little bit of self deprecations was appreciated. She watched him for a moment, then turned back to her work.

"You mentioned that you've painted some of these...could you point out some of them?"

Clint had wandered over to her left, though he was still a good ways back. Natasha shrugged, and gestured over to the wall to the side.

"Some of those hanging on the wall, and all but the front few on the ground."

Clint moved towards the paintings, and after a moment, gave a soft _"Huh"._

Natasha couldn't help herself. She had to turn.

"Do you not believe me?" she asked, cracking the tiniest of smiles. Clint shrugged and shook his head, and said "No, I totally believe you, I just...well, I didn't know what to expect when I saw that painting, there." Clint pointed at one of the front paintings on the ground. It was stacked up in a neat row, waiting to be framed with the rest of the canvasses. There were a couple of smaller pieces in front of it, but delicate mounds of snow set against a flat blue sky were unmistakable.

Natasha paused, feeling a shriek of shock spring up her spine. All the beginnings of amiable feelings that had sprouted inside her immediately withered as suspicion took over. Natasha set down her brush and gave him a blank look. It was _The Road of the War Prisoners _by Vasily Vereshchagin_,_ a beautiful thing full of ice and death.

"You know Russian realists?"

"Not really. I took my brother's kid over to the Brooklyn Museum on a field trip last week, and I could have sworn I saw this picture."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. I only noticed it because right beside it, there was this painting commissioned by the government with a happy family and tons of symbolism about how great the place was, y'know. And then there was this..." he tailed off, gesturing vaguely at the painting. She completely understood. The starkness of the painting was part of her attraction to it. _The Road of War Prisoners_ depicted the Turkish prisoners of war taken by the Russians during the Russo-Turkish War. The picture was fairly simple, with frozen bodies idly scattered around the bottom of the canvas, as if an afterthought in the painting. The death in it was stark and unimpressive, showing the true gracelessness that people held when their lives had fled.

Natasha took a breath, and tried to stuff away all of the wanton panic inside of her. Clint Barton, as far as she could tell, was just a person. There was no reason for her to lose her head and jump to atrocious conclusions, like maybe he had been sent to find her and he had finally done it and now she was either going to end up in prison for a very long time or cut up into ruthless little pieces and sprinkled over the Hudson for an even longer time. If this was some perverse, unexpected game of cat and mouse, he wouldn't be wearing such a pleasant expression of mild surprise.

"Well, Mr. Barton, I'm afraid that I don't have anywhere near enough to tempt a museum to give up one of their pieces."

She gave him a frosty smile, making it clear that she did not appreciate the veiled accusation of art theft. Clint's still warm smile was unfazed, and he tipped his head at the window.

"Rain's stopped. Am I allowed to leave with the picture, now?"

"Of course," she said breezily, sliding off her stool.

"Oh, and could I get one of your business cards? My brother said he lost his, and he wanted one for his friend."

"Absolutely," Natasha grit out, stalking over to her desk. This was so _stupid._ One man, one stupid, drenched, _art illiterate man_ had stumbled into her home, and rattled her cage with a few throw away comments. She still didn't like turning her back on him now, though. Even though she was _fairly _sure that he wasn't going to yank out a knife and drive it between her ribs, she hated feeling so exposed.

She grabbed the card, and turned around to face him. He thanked her, picked up the painting, and turned to the door.

"Thank you for allowing me into your home," he said.

"Not at all," she said, in way of _go away and never come back._

Of course, he tossed a cheery wave over his shoulder, which she promptly slammed the door on.

_What an asshole,_ she thought, leaning against the door. She listened to him walk away, then she pushed herself up. He wasn't with the police, and he wasn't looking for vengeance for her uncle, else he would have jumped the moment he saw the painting. Unless either party were removed. Or _both-_

No. _No._ Natasha's paranoia was running away with her, there was no way her uncle would work with _anyone_ with a badge, at least, not a legal or authentic one. But she still had to think of what to do next. Did she pack her bags and disappear before it became dark, or did she wait and see what turned up? Natasha had already vanished herself once, and she didn't exactly want to do it again.

She sighed, then walked over to the towel to wipe up whatever remnants of water Clint had left behind. She worked her way back to the door, then straightened.

There was something scrawled on the notepad on the decorative shelf, the handwriting not her own. She blinked, then felt a sudden wave of anger as she realized that Clint had distracted her with the business card to _write down his number._ What an _asshole_.

She tore off the page and threw it down on her counter as she passed. Natasha stalked back to her laundry basket, sullenly thinking that water hadn't been the only thing dripping off of Clint Barton. Clint's charisma had been almost as apparent as his good manners or terrible habit of smoking. Hopefully, when he eventually butted back into her life (because he would and with absolutely no shame, she could tell), Natasha just hoped that it wouldn't be accompanied with the swift hands of vengeance or the law.


	2. worth the risk

_AN This is later in coming than I would have liked, but here it is! Feast thine eyes._

It took four days, but Natasha did contact Clint. Of course, she had to jump through a few hoops of her own making first, but that wasn't anything new.

First, Natasha had to decide if she really _did_ need to skip town. She left her apartment not long after Clint left, and made sure to keep an eye out for anyone tailing her. When she came up with nothing, she let herself return home, brooded on how exactly Clint had rumbled her, and went to sleep. The next day, she moved the painting the hell out of her apartment, and stopped by an old acquaintance's place. After a little bit of sweet talking and coercing, she managed to get him to drop by. He came to her apartment the day after that, quietly searched for any bugs that might have been planted, and after exchanging a bottle of wine, taxi fare, and thanks, Natasha was left with the certainty that Clint was not anything out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that he had guessed correctly that she had a stolen piece of artwork sitting casually in her dining room.

That left one whole day of her alternating between pointedly ignoring and pointedly staring at the slightly crumpled piece of paper on her counter. It had not been touched since she had dropped it there, and since it had resisted all of her efforts to make it spontaneously combust via glaring at it, she supposed that she might as well call.

She grabbed up her phone, stabbed in the numbers, and waited for him to pick up. She had no idea what she was going to say, or how she was going to justify it to herself or to him, but she was doing it, she was doing it _oh hell_ why was she doing it—

"Hello?"

Natasha blinked at the sound of a boy's voice on the other side of the phone. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it, as if that would help her figure things out, then quickly answered. Had Clint somehow given her the wrong number? Had she punched it in wrong? As hilariously embarrassing that would be for either party, Natasha somehow doubted it.

"Hello. Is Clint Barton available?"

"Mm-hm, one sec. _Clint, phone's for you!_" The last bit was little muffled, like the kid was craning his head away from the phone and half shouting for the man. There was a pause, in which Natasha could hear someone she guessed was Clint grumble "_Holy hell, kid, told you to leave my phone alone_," before Clint came on the line.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Oh, hi," Clint said. Natasha closed her eyes and tried not to feel a little rankled that he recognized her voice right away. At least that spared them an awkward introduction.

"Hello," she repeated, then started cursing herself. Where was her composure, her casual condescension? She could have hung up while the kid was calling for him, she could have pretended Clint Barton wasn't worth her time, what was she _doing_—

"Is this about the painting or the desire to go have lunch with me?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, relieved that he had said something that she could pretend to be annoyed over, because she did irritated _a lot_ better than awkwardly interested. "You're rather confident in yourself, aren't you?"

"A little."

Natasha took a breath, then pulled herself together. This was embarrassing.

"This call is a comment and a notification."

"Oh?"

"Yes. My comment is that it takes a certain kind of person to accuse an artist of art theft, and then hit on them."

"Hopefully not a bad kind. At any rate, I didn't _accuse _you of anything. I just said I didn't expect to see that particular piece there, in your home. _You _were the one to say that they were all originals. I was just trying to make small talk."

"Well, the insinuation was exceptionally rude, and you should know that that is _not t_he way to endear yourself to an artist."

"Was that the notification?"

"No, it was a subcomment," she snapped, then held her breath.

"The notification was that I like to have my tea at two in the little cafe beneath my apartment," she said, her stomach dropping away from her, because that had ended up being a whole lot scarier than she had ever expected. Rappelling down high security buildings at night to a yard full of trained dogs with a nearly priceless vase in her hands had been stressful and difficult. _This_, however, was terrifying enough to make her want to drop the phone and dry heave in her sink. Thankfully, none of that reached her voice.

"That so?" Clint asked, and she just _knew_ he was wearing a devilish smile.

"Yes. I go there every day except Sundays, when it's closed."

"Well, I will be sure to consider that, then, Miss Romanoff."

"Thank you. Have a good evening, Mister Barton."

Natasha promptly hung up, before Clint could wheedle in any more clever conversation. She leaned against the counter, clutching the phone in her hand.

She had just done the whole I'm-not-asking-but-I-really-am-asking bit with Clint about a date.

Natasha really hoped this wasn't a mistake.

* * *

Natasha rested her arm against the back of her chair, quietly surveying the people around her. She had her pocket sketchbook laid out on her lap, the off-white pages practically blinding against her black dress, and with the sun bouncing off them.

She had invited Clint to tea two days ago, but she still couldn't keep her toes from tapping due to nerves. She kept thinking that maybe, _maybe_ this would be it, but so far he hadn't shown up.

A sigh escaped her, and she turned back to look at her sketchbook. The profile of an elderly man talking was juxtaposed from a young woman strutting down the street, phone and dog in hand. She idly cast her eye around the street for another subject, when she saw Clint.

Natasha couldn't help but break into a smile as he paused in front of her table, looking far more presentable than he had on their first encounter. His clothes weren't dressy or expensive like Natasha's, but he still looked nice. His hair was brushed, and he didn't look vaguely frazzled and wasn't half out off breath, like last time. He also wasn't soaked, she noted, and hopefully managed to hide her smirk.

"Miss Romanoff," he said, a slightly mocking tone in his voice, "imagine seeing you here."

"Mister Barton. I can hardly believe the odds."

Clint smirked and nodded, then pointed at the doors to the cafe.

"D'you mind if I popped in there to buy something real quick? If I sit out here without buying something, the baristas won't be able to glare at me as often, so they'll have to amp up the hate in their eyes to make sure I get the message."

"Afraid their mean looks might make you combust?"

"This _is_ New York. A guy exploding from the ugly looks of baristas is pretty low on a weirdness scale set by a giant ape slapping air planes from a sky scraper."

Natasha chuckled and waved him away, to which he gave an overly polite nod, and walked inside.

Now that Clint had finally appeared, Natasha felt her nerves both settle down and shake themselves up. She didn't have to worry about Clint taking her offer any more, but now she had to actually think about sitting down and having tea with the man that had rightfully accused her of professional art theft.

To distract herself, Natasha took off her large sunglasses, but left on the black sun hat. She took a few steadying breaths, folded the glasses and set them neatly by her saucer, and waited for Clint to come back outside. Clearly he wasn't worried about this conversation, and if anything, was treating it like a normal date.

Natasha wasn't quite sure what to think about this part of the problem. Her last relationship had ended with a couple of considerable lies, a few desperate favors, and her finally fleeing the country. Not that it had actually been a _bad_ relationship, but it hadn't exactly set a good precedent.

Clint returned to the table holding an enormous brownie and an Italian soda. He settled down across from her, stuck the straw in his drink, then looked at her expectantly.

"So, Miss Romanoff."

"Mister Barton."

"Are we gonna do this every time we talk?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. "How 'bout you just call me 'Clint'."

"I suppose you may call me 'Natasha'," she answered, feeling her anxiety abate. Banter was good. Banter she could handle.

"Great. Day going well?"

"So far, yes, though a particular patch of vines refuse to allow themselves to be painted."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she sighed into her tea cup. "Something about the paints I'm mixing isn't working with the rest of the color scheme."

"Well, I really can't advise you on that. I barely got enough color sense to match my clothes."

They both laughed, and Clint took a sip of his Italian soda. Natasha cast another look over the drink, deciding that it wasn't much more than coloring, lies, and sugar. She bit back any comments about his not drinking tea at tea time, deciding that playful criticisms were reserved for a later date.

"So, what is it you do?"

"Whatever I can," Clint said, waving a hand. "Being a circus attraction wasn't really a career, plus no one _really _wants to feed Doritos to ostriches for the rest of their lives, so I settled for doing a bit of everything to see what sticks."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, wondering which part of his sentence she was supposed to tackle first. He gave her a fantastically roguish grin that made her think he was just teasing her, so she left the circus thing alone.

The two of them continued talking, pleasantly passing from subject to subject. Natasha made sure to keep Clint away from the topic of art or her past, while she sensed that Clint was doing much the same. She couldn't say just _what_ it was that he was trying to avoid talking about, but she had seen enough topic dodging in her day to recognize the ear marks.

Still, Natasha found herself enjoying Clint's company. He kept up that charming, clever, and slightly self deprecating air from before, which she found herself taking to. It was clear that the worlds they inhabited were very different, but that didn't stop the conversation from flowing. She talked about art mostly, explaining that she really did love to paint, but that framing was generally a more lucrative, if less soulful, profession. She talked about the differences between watercolor and gouache paint, but that acrylic was her favorite, and that she adored being able to pull inspiration from the people on her street. Clint didn't seem to mind the single mindedness of her conversation, and remained the perfect conversationalist, asking questions here, giving an opinion there.

He in turn spoke about the little quirks of life, as he allegedly had no profession or distinct passion to intrigue Natasha with. She learned that the painting he had picked up from her had been Bernard's anniversary gift to his wife, and that Clint had babysat their son while they went out (apparently, learning how to juggle with one hand was exceptionally tiresome work, and Clint even managed to get the kid to go to bed at a decent hour). He was a kind person, Natasha was coming to realize, the sort that was willing to drop everything and help someone move their couch in during a hailstorm. And as charming as that was, Natasha couldn't help but feel a wriggle of jealousy. So far, everything she had done in her life had been for herself. Even escaping to America with the Vereshchagin had been entirely for her own purposes, and nothing anyone said could make it otherwise.

By the time Clint pulled his brownie into two pieces and offered her half, Natasha had more or less forgotten her anxiety about him guessing her secret. Every time she took over the conversation, he had a little smile on his face, as if to say that he was rather delighted by the whole situation. He gave Natasha the impression that he would keep the Vereshchagin quiet til he died, as long as it meant he was allowed to have tea with her. That didn't mean she would completely forget herself. A secret was a secret, and it could kill someone, no matter who held it.

It was a little strange when Clint finally checked his watch and sighed, muttering something about having to go. Natasha gave him a small smile over their shared brownie, and nodded.

"It was great having tea with you," Clint said, brushing off his hands. She shrugged, running her fingers over the rim of her teacup.

"It was quite nice having tea with you, as well. I learned more about you than I might have otherwise."

"Same here," he grinned, putting his hands in his pockets. They spent a moment just smiling at each other, him standing up, her still lounged in her chair.

Clearly Clint wasn't about to break things up, despite his engagement, so Natasha broke the silence with "Well, we wouldn't want you being late."

"Oh, yeah," he said, but didn't move. Natasha fought to keep her smile from growing a little bit bigger, and picked up her sunglasses. She thumbed through her wallet, ignoring Clint's abrupt comments of "Awh _c'mon,_ let me do that...", and set down a tip.

"I rather enjoyed myself, Clint. Thank you for the company."

"I had a lot of fun, too. Can't wait to see how those vines shape up."

Natasha gave him a full on smirk, then turned on her heel and walked back into her apartment building. She couldn't help but feel a little satisfied with herself as she let the door swing shut behind her, because she felt that she'd done a good job. She had navigated her way through a not-date-date without making a complete ass of herself, and Clint clearly had no intention of telling her secret to the police. Their little...get together had been fun. She wouldn't mind doing it again some time.

* * *

_AN I adore this story. Straight up, I could die from the sheer joy of just thinking about this thing. It's so different from everything else I'm writing, because it's excuse to write adorable fluff with no pain and no sadness and only a smidge of residual angst, and it's so refreshing and lovely I could die._


	3. allow me this one thing

_AN I adooooooore the cuteness of this story. I know I've said it before, but you DON'T UNDERSTAAAAAAND. Also, thank you for all of the attention this story has received! I appreciate it all :)_

_Many thanks to the darlings at The Beta Branch for editing this for me! You guys are wonderful and I love you._

* * *

Clint 'stumbled across' Natasha having tea two more times before he worked up the courage to ask her out on a real date. Natasha, remembering the anxiety-stricken affair that was her own date asking, decided to spare his nerves. She only toyed with him a _little _before agreeing, partially because she didn't want to seem _too_ eager, and partially because it was kind of adorable, seeing a grown man beg.

Their lunch dates were practically the same as their tea dates, except with the benefit of being a bit longer. Despite them never actually having a conversation of substance, she still learned things about Clint. There were the obvious things that came out, like how she had learned that he had a brother, who was married and had a boy, or how he had lived in Iowa for the vast majority of his childhood, but there were subtler things as well.

She had been seeing him for almost a month, now, and aside from their first encounter, she hadn't seen so much as a hint of a cigarette. Unlike her first assumption about him, Clint wasn't some dirty, pack-a-day smoker. He was more the covert smoker, one that indulged in a cigarette whenever there wasn't any innocent bystander to suffer from his nasty habit. He had bizarrely good aim, proven after entertaining her one afternoon by hitting a variety of targets with sections of his napkin. Natasha had only had to point or nod at something, and a piece of paper would go bouncing off of it moments later. Most of this targets ended up being people, all of whom had been completely oblivious as to why two grown adults were desperately shoving their hands in their mouths, trying not to disrupt their neighbors.

The most interesting thing, though, was that Clint could turn his charisma on and off like a light. One second he would be an average Joe, and the next he would be stunningly complimentary, and gliding his way through formerly closed doors (Natasha assumed this was something washing over from his circus days..._if_ those were even real. She still wasn't sure if he had been joking, as the circus hadn't even been brought up again). Of course, this was hardly the first time she had seen someone so amiable, but it was probably the first time she had seen someone do it with no malicious intent. She was so accustomed to a charming smile being accompanied by some distraction that she had made a point of looking for the trick the first few times Clint did it. Clint undoubtedly noticed, but he never commented on it.

On one of their dates, when Clint had been pressed for time, he had asked her out on a walk. It was hardly the most luxurious date she had ever been on, but it was simple and sweet and exceptionally Clint. Honestly, she was just pleased he was taking time out of his day to see her. Beyond that, thought, Natasha genuinely enjoyed strolling around Central Park with him. They continued their idle conversation, commenting on the people around them and absorbing the casual warmth of spring.

About halfway through, some dormant, affectionate part of Natasha said that she could probably get away with holding his hand. Then she seized up and finished the walk with her hands planted firmly in her pockets. She enjoyed being around Clint, sure, and hell, she even _liked _Clint,but she enjoyed the company of and liked a lot of people. She was perfectly comfortable figuring out just _how_ she how she liked him before she decided to get _crazy _about things and hold his hand.

As they were nearing the front of the park, Clint's phone went off. He jumped and fished it out of his pocket, muttering, "Crap, sorry, Natasha, I gotta take this."

She waited patiently, wondering just what was being said to make Clint's forehead furrow that way. He ran a knuckle over his eyebrow and sighed, "Yeah, sure, that's fine. Just make sure it's ready by the time I get there," then turned to Natasha.

"Natasha, I'm so sorry, but I gotta go," he whispered, covering the receiver. She smiled and nodded, trying not to feel a little put out that their time together had been cut short, even by a few minutes.

He leaned in and then all thoughts of a good healthy foot between them vanished as she felt him touch her shoulder. It was hardly an intimate gesture, just a form of parting, but Natasha was shocked by how personal it felt. He gave her a brief smile, waved, then left. She watched him go, then pulled her hands out of her pockets now that the danger had passed.

Natasha could still feel the ghost of Clint's fingers on her shoulder when she climbed onto the subway, twenty minutes later.

* * *

"Can I see you work some time?"

Natasha paused, teacup suspended halfway between the table and her mouth. She raised an eyebrow at Clint, then shrugged.

"Sure, I don't mind. Personally, I think framing pictures is rather tedious to watch, but if you want to see it..."

"No, not that," he laughed, shaking his head. He took a drink of the heinously sugary concoction he called an Italian soda (this time it was cream, whipped cream, and hazelnut syrup featuring a smidge of soda water), eyes on her. She finished sipping her tea, then set the cup on its saucer. He was trying to get her to say something, but he was going to have to make his own requests.

"I wanna...could I watch you draw?"

"You've seen me draw. And that's not work."

"I've seen you _sketch,_ but I've never actually seen the product. Plus it's not the same. I think it would be cool to see how someone goes from a whole buncha nothing to a freakin' _painting. _I want to see a bit of that, I dunno, _creative spark._"

"You want to see my 'creative spark'?"

"Yeah. You saying you don't have it?"

Natasha rolled her eyes at his challenge, a smirk working its way into her features even though she was trying _very _hard to scowl.

"I don't know what you're expecting. It's not like I'm going to be making some sort of masterpiece. It's not like it's going to be a _Monet, _or some—or some—"

"Vereshchagin?"

Natasha shot him a look that said she did _not_ appreciate his oh so hilarious sense of irony, but then her smile betrayed her completely.

"No, it's not going to be anything like that."

"I've seen your finished pieces. First time we met, your place was _plastered_ with all of your stuff. I know what to expect, and that's pretty amazing by itself."

Natasha considered him, tapping her foot slightly. The last person that had seen her paint, really _paint_, had been her uncle, and she even then she had been planning her elaborate escape from him. She didn't want that sort of discomfort washing back over this experience. But...she also wanted to show Clint. Painting was an exceptionally personal experience (even when she was simply copying another person's work), and...she wanted Clint to know that part of her. She wanted something more than teasing conversation, a few summations, and sincere yet impersonal dates.

"Okay," she said, feeling that awful sensation of her stomach dropping out of her shoes yet again. "Okay. I...I was actually going to go work on a piece after this. If you want...?"

Clint broke into a large smile.

"I got time."

Natasha tried ignore the butterflies in her stomach as she led him up to her apartment a few minutes later. She kept thinking about how it looked, whether she had cleaned up the stack of mail she had left on the counter, or if she still had those miscellaneous reference photos still strewn about her living room. Clint was oblivious to her growing agitation, serenely walking up the stairs behind her.

When she reached her door, she had to take a moment to drag in a breath before unlocking the door. She pushed it open and stepped inside, inconspicuously craning her neck to see if her home was a mess. Thankfully, it wasn't, but that still didn't manage to soothe her jitters.

How Natasha went from standing in her doorway to sitting in front of her current painting, brush in hand, she had no idea. There were a _lot _of steps between here and there, like taking off her shoes, gesturing for Clint to hang up his coat, offering Clint something to eat, excusing herself to go change, coming back, setting up, trying not to fret even more than she already was...and yet, she remembered doing none of them. It was like she blinked, and then she was situated on her work stool with the painting in front and Clint to the side.

"Why...are you smearing colors everywhere?" he asked. She gave him a look, annoyed even though he was clearly trying his best to not sound judgmental. She looked back at the painting, then sighed.

"I'm roughing out the colors. I'm trying to balance things, to make sure that the color scheme has the feel I want."

"Right. Then you'll...?"

"I'm going to put in the roughs, then I'll go back and refine the colors," she said, returning to her work. She paused, then added a smear of purple in the sky.

"So I'm getting that this is a landscape scene," Clint said after another beat, and she closed her eyes. She was used to silent critics, the kind who understood exactly what she was doing just when she was doing it, and who knew what she was doing wrong before she even did it. Or,even better, people who kept their mouths shut until the piece was finished. Clint, obviously, was a completely different sort of audience.

"This here is a field, lots of trees, big tree in front on the left? Yeah, okay, big tree in front to the left, lots of nice sky between the top of the forest in the background and the branches of that front tree. But what's that thing?" he asked, pointing at the blob of red, orange, and tan at the top of the painting.

"That's a person sitting in the tree."

"Oh. I was just confused, from its general lack of peopley-ness."

Natasha gave him another look.

"I...will stop talking unless I have a good question," he mumbled, deflating slightly. Natasha heaved a mental sigh. She hadn't meant to be _that_ hostile, but she also valued the quiet too much to apologize.

Natasha continued working. She finished the roughs and quickly began shaping the picture, adding definition to the forest, giving the field in the center shading to show depth, dappling the figure in the tree to show the light coming through the leaves. Clint was quiet for the most part, asking only pertinent questions like he promised. He asked her why she was using purple to shade the picture (to add depth without making the picture muddy, like what typically happened with black paint), or why she was 'using such a crap load of brushes' (each brush was very, very different, Clint), or why she was caking on the paints.

"These paints, acrylics, give more control when I use them heavily. They _could _be used like watercolors, if I use water to dilute the paints," she said, gesturing at one of the paintings on her wall, "but then they dry fairly quickly, and I'm stuck with it the way it is. This way, I can manipulate the painting as much as I want, as it's a lot slower to dry."

"So if you water them down, then you've gotta hide your mistakes. But if they're heavy, then they're not really _mistakes_ so much as the steps towards a better product."

"Yes."

"I feel like there's some sort a metaphor in there," Clint sighed, making her laugh.

"Probably. I'll let you figure that one out, though."

She lapsed back into painting, giving shape to the clouds, blending in the moss on the trunk of the main tree, shaping some of the leaves—

"Why d'ya do that?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you do that?" he repeated, exaggerating the words.

Natasha turned to face Clint, utterly lost. He sighed, then took her hand.

"You just smeared paint all over your palm. Why'd ya do that?"

"I, oh, uhm, I had too much paint on the brush."

"So you've got a palette, and a whole _painting_ to spread that around on. Why use your hand?"

Natasha looked down at her left palm, frowning. She had hardly been conscious of the action, but there was the paint, streaked different shades of green and already starting to dry.

"If I wiped it on the palette, it might flick everywhere, or I might wipe too much off. And I don't want those particular colors on the rest of the painting. The paint will wash off fairly easy."

Clint laughed, shaking his head.

"Artists are _weird._"

Natasha rolled her eyes, but refrained from making some ruffled comment about how she wouldn't call herself something so loaded as an _artist._

Clint was still holding her hand, so Natasha turned her head to continue examining her painting. She jumped a little when she felt his thumb run over her palm, but then realized he was checking to see if the paint was still wet.

"That really does dry fast," he murmured, more to himself than anything. Natasha watched him, taken by how absorbed he was. He was completely invested in his task, running through what she had told him and pairing that with what he had just experienced. His expression was thoughtful, almost to the point where he seemed disconnected from where he was.

Clint raised her hand, and pressed his lips to her palm. Natasha frowned at him as he pulled it away, noting the green that was now speckling his lips.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, setting down her paint brush. She checked the thumb of her free hand to make sure that it didn't also have paint on it, then attempted to smear the paint off of his face. "You've got green paint all over your mouth now, and it's not going to be fun washing it once it dries."

Clint stared at her, confused for a moment. He looked at her, eyes making their way from her face along her arm to her hand. He raised an eyebrow as she continued smearing her thumb along his mouth, as if asking if she realized what she was doing.

Natasha froze. Her heart attempted to fly into her mouth, but it seemed to get stuck somewhere in her throat, and she felt like choking for a moment. She stared at Clint with wide eyes, trying to deal with the fact that she not only had just wiped her hand all over his mouth, but that Clint had just _kissed her palm._

The sudden urge to leap up and bolt for the door nearly overwhelmed her, but Clint was still holding her hand, anchoring her. She was still considering it, to be honest. She wasn't _ready_ for this, she wasn't ready to go dive into..._whatever _it was he was asking her to dive into! She couldn't even comfortably hold his _hand_, much less declare to the world that yes, _yes_ she was interested in someone, yes she was ready to throw her soul at Clint Barton and pray he catch it!

She might have said something in those awkward seconds, but she couldn't remember anything. It probably wasn't anything intelligent, or more likely anything coherent, but hopefully Clint trying to figure out what she was saying would give her time to process things and figure out how to _get out of there._

Natasha took her hand back, eyes dropping to it. She could see the marks his mouth had made in the paint, a literal reminder that she couldn't pretend this hadn't happened. She could try, though. She was very, _very _good at pretending.

Natasha turned back to her painting, blindly reaching for her paintbrush. She was scrambling to grab back that wonderful, annoyed ,and vaguely icy persona she had first had with Clint, because annoyed and icy was far more in control than shell shocked and mortified.

Clint took her chin in his hand, and in one swift motion he had turned her back around and had kissed her. Natasha sat there for a moment, feeling adequately dumbfounded. She blinked a couple times, trying to figure out what she was supposed to do, what move she was supposed to make next, but nothing would come, _nothing would come_. She was flailing, desperately reaching back into her old days to find a personality, to find a con that would work in this situation, but she had never _been_ in this situation. The closest she came was her last relationship, and that had been a fierce burn and an aggressive display of affection from before the word 'go'. She had known exactly what was wanted and expected from her, but here, here she had _no idea._

Then Natasha broke the spectrum of worrying, and reached the point where she didn't care. She stopped thinking about what her personas would do in this situation, and just did what _she _would do in this situation. She kissed back.

It only lasted a few seconds, a few blissful seconds of not thinking and not planning and most of all, not _worrying_, but she found herself loving every moment of it. When she pulled away, she found that Clint was giving this wide, adorable grin, like he was the most pleased person in all the world.

She watched him for a moment, then brushed her thumb against his lips again, just to make sure it had happened, just to make sure it was real. His grin turned a little mischievous, and he grabbed her hand again, and kissed the pad of her thumb.

Natasha broke into an equally large and ridiculous smile, trying to think of what to do next.

"Now it looks like we've both got green paint on us."

Clint laughed and shrugged, as if to say that it was a very, very small price to pay. She couldn't help but agree.

* * *

_AN It's kind of refreshing to write a story about a couple whose adventures happen **after** they become a couple. Usually, my stories show people struggling and fighting and suffering until they confess their feelings or whatever about two-thirds of the way through the story, which is a wonderful playground for angst, but I love being able to do something different. Strangely enough, happiness suits people, and I like writing it :'D_


	4. tell me soft and tell me sweet

_AN I am ridiculously excited for this chapter. I feel like I say that about EVERY chapter, but you justdon'tunderstand. Yet. Also, enjoy some time in Clint's headspace! I had a lot of fun writing it, because he's D__EFINITELY not the aesthete she is, and views things in a utilitarian sort of way, but he still has an appreciation for the beauty and glory he is faced with. I feel like that leads to some interesting analysis from him, so you'll definitely have to tell me :)_

* * *

Clint toyed with his phone in his pocket as he walked towards Natasha's apartment. He had been seeing her for a while now, about two months. At least, it had been two months since their first date outside the cafe under her apartment. He wasn't quite sure when they had shifted from the casual investigation stage to the emotional investment stage, but he knew that by the time he had kissed her, he was an absolute and complete goner. But he could also tell that things would have to go slow with Natasha. She was exceptionally hesitant about every little thing, each basic step turning into a leap of faith.

Seeing the trepidation in her eyes didn't deter or frustrate him, though. Clint could see all the wonderful potential there was between them, and they would still reach the end together if he walked at her pace instead of his own.

Yet, he also felt a bit of anxiety over holding her in his hands. Clint knew that if he messed up with Natasha, she would be even more removed in the next relationship, if there even_ was_ a next one for her. He had grown up under a negative relationship, and had seen the exact sort of damage it could cause on a person. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did that to someone else, especially if they were as fragile as Natasha was.

He opened the door to Natasha's apartment building, and started climbing the steps.

Clint liked Natasha's apartment. It was crisp and bright and frankly _beautiful_, filled with gorgeous art and stylish furniture. He liked his own apartment well enough, as it was clean, had comfortable furniture, and wasn't falling down around his ears, but Natasha's place was the very definition of comfort and class. That was probably because she actually _had _the money to indulge in her tastes, but then, Clint wasn't sure if he'd manage better, even if he miraculously became a millionaire.

Clint rapped on Natasha's door, unable to hold back his smile when it opened. Natasha gave a pleased half smile and said, "Hey there, stranger."

"Hey, Natasha," he said, and stepped inside. "Whatcha working on today?"

"Just a couple of frames. A high school art class are putting a bunch of their pieces in the art gallery at a local library, and they all want it done by next week."

"That as rough as it sounds?"

"It's fairly tedious. It's kind of entertaining to see the art, though. There's a lot of talent in that class."

"Cool. Nothing as good as you, though, right?" He nudged her on the side, earning a smirk and an eye roll as she walked back to the kitchen. Clint walked over to her desk, scanning a few of the pieces laying out. He could tell that the artists hadn't quite matured yet, but like Natasha had said, there was a lot of talent staring back at him. He shifted aside a few frames aside to look at a few of the pictures on the bottom, then turned to Natasha. She wasn't wearing the dark tank top and exercise pants that were her work clothes, but was instead wearing a rich blue shirt with white buttons down the back and black capris.

"Were you headed somewhere?"

"In a little bit. I need to run a few errands."

"Do you need to go right now?"

"No, I can wait. Would you like something to drink?"

Clint walked over to the counter, and rested his arms on the edge.

"Apple juice, straight up."

"Daring, aren't we?" she asked, opening her fridge and pulling out a container of juice. He shrugged and was on the verge of saying something clever and glib, but then his hearing aid beeped, cutting him off.

_Dammit._

"Was that your phone?" Natasha asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"Nah, that was my hearing aid," he sighed. "It's gonna go dead, soon."

"Hearing aid?" Natasha looked at him, eye brows raised in surprise. The container of apple juice was still held in mid air, apparently forgotten in the face of this new development. He shrugged and forced himself not to fidget, because he was an _adult_, not a nervous fourteen year old that didn't want people to find out he was _different_.

"Yeah." He pulled it out of his ear, and held it up for her to see. Natasha leaned over to look at it, small and unimpressive by itself. It was about the size of his thumbnail, blue for the most part, but with a flat end that was flesh colored to help disguise it.

Natasha nodded, clearly still surprised, then turned to finish pouring him a drink. Clint watched her face, a small bit of him relieved that she had treated it like it was nothing. But, just as she was turning away, he caught her expression change slightly, becoming a little sad.

"What?" he asked, stomach tightening. She shook her head, not looking at him for a moment.

"It's just...we've known each other for about two months, and yet...there is a lot we don't know about each other." She handed him his cup, nailing him full on with that somber, slightly confused look. Clint laughed, unsurprised to find that it had turned a little melancholic as well.

"Well, for me, at least, there are some things you just don't want to spill on the first date."

"I'm not bothered you didn't tell me about the hearing aids," Natasha said, shaking her head. "I just—I want to know you, Clint."

Clint blinked, uncertain what to do with the strikingly open and hopeful expression she was giving him. His first instinct was to take her face in his hands and kiss her until he knew exactly what hope and honesty tasted like, but he sensed that wasn't exactly the smartest course here.

He chewed on his cheek, because aside from kissing her, he was fairly comfortable with quietly edging around the uglier parts of his life, of which the hearing aids were _hardly_ the beginning. But Natasha, whom undoubtedly had quite a bit under her belt as well, was asking, politely, quietly, wanting to be let in.

He nodded, and her smile was delicious and a little nervous.

"Do you want to stay here, or go...?" She gestured towards the living room, and he nodded, picking up his glass. Natasha lingered in the kitchen long enough to fill her own glass and bring a plate of sugar cookies over.

"What are those for?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow as she sat on the couch.

"They're from my neighbor," she told him. She set them down on the coffee table, and settled in one of the black square arm chairs.

"Do I need to be worried?" he asked, taking a cookie.

"Not really, as she's married, and I'm not a lesbian."

"That's good. I'm not sure I could beat out somebody with such seductive cookie making powers," he said. Natasha gave a soft laugh, then fell silent. They looked at each other for a moment, both wearing strangely uncertain smiles.

"Where do you want to start?"

"I'm not sure." Natasha was starting to look a little embarrassed, as she was trying to hide her face by 'casually' looking away and brushing her hair out of her face.

"Okay...why don't you tell me what you _do _know about me?"

"You grew up in Iowa," Natasha began, looking up at the ceiling as she thought. "You moved to New York a few years back, you've got a brother, sister-in-law, and a nephew. You've referenced circus life multiple times, but I'm not sure if you really lived there for a period—"

"I did," he interrupted, grinning. "I joined when I was, what, sixteen, and learned actual work ethic. I left after a couple months and went to college."

"Clown college?"

"_Community_ college," he said, allowing a resigned smile at the joke, because everyone had to make it at least once.

"Alright. You had a dog a while back, but he's gone, but not dead, you smoke, and you do an assortment of jobs for a temp agency. And," her mouth quirked at this, as if to say _of course, _"you have hearing aids."

Clint smiled at her summation, but he couldn't help but feel a little strange at hearing his life so neatly wrapped up by her gentle, accented voice. It all sounded so different, almost charming and idyllic, even, which was a gross misrepresentation of what had actually occurred. There had been a lot of pain and screwing up and awkwardly making amends in his life that could never be fathomed when listening to that voice. Clint wasn't sure if he disliked or preferred it that way. On one hand, he would have loved to have something so sweet, but at the same time, he would never have been the person he was today without it.

Natasha's smile changed ever so slightly, and she tilted her head at him, sensing something was off. Clint slipped into a smile of his own to keep her from asking what was wrong, and said, "Well, if you know _that _much, then clearly I haven't been doing my job very well."

She laughed at his joke, but Clint could tell she wasn't going to dismiss his expression so easily. Natasha would hang onto it and fling it back at him later down the road, probably when he didn't expect it, so that he would have to scramble and end up in a corner with only the truth as his way out.

"That's it," she said after a pause. "That's all I know about you."

"That's it? That's _all _you've got?"

"Well, there are _other things,_ but they're not really important. I could tell you that you like pushing your sleeves up to your elbows, or that you're a sugar _fiend,_ or that you have strangely amazing aim, or that you notice so much of your surroundings. But that's not what I'm asking. I could figure that out just by spending a few afternoons with you. But I don't know..._how_ you got here," she said, staring at his hands as she searched for the words. "I don't know what happened to make you Clint Barton. I don't know who you've been through the good and the bad, because I don't _know_ your good and bad. Do you understand, does that makes sense?"

He nodded, and let out a long, slow breath. For a second, he felt dread and a childish petulance inside of him, because he didn't _want _to tell her. He didn't want to let her crack him open and pick his past apart for her own curiosity. He didn't want her, prim, well off, educated, and cultured Natasha Romanoff to peer down at grubby little Clint Barton. He had been the kid who was so poor that he had had to wear shoes long after holes had been worn into them, who had been yelled at every time he had gone home from college, like he was a stupid kid again with no worth in the world, who had made a game of stealing things because his father had been too drunk to go to work and actually get paid. He didn't want her to see how dirty and ungainly his life had been, especially when she was accustomed to some level of glamor.

But he _did _want to please Natasha. He wanted to make her more comfortable around him. He wanted to meet her, step for step, down this strange road they were making.

_Oh, hell, Barton, man up and answer her._

"I get it," he said, and shifted in his seat. "Well, what d'you...what d'you want to know?"

"What was it like, growing up?"

"Tough," he said, meeting her eyes and hoping that his expression was more frank and open than flat and bitter. "We were poor, and that was hard. Just another thing for kids to pick on me an' Barney for."

"You were bullied?"

"Yeah. Me more than Barney. I was smaller, I talked funny, 'cause I couldn't hear properly, I didn't know when to shut up...typical stuff, really."

"Cruelty should never be called 'typical'. Not from a person, not from a child."

Clint cracked into a smile at Natasha's unhappy expression.

"But it is common, child or not."

She looked away, clearly reminded of something else. He bit his lip, and decided not to push even though he wanted to know. Clint cleared his throat, but couldn't think of anything lighter to say, so he let the silence continue on. After a few seconds, Natasha spoke. She was still looking off at the far wall, but her words weren't upset.

"Did that ever...poison you?" she asked. She gave an annoyed huff that said she couldn't think of the right word in English, then said, "Because of that, did you ever become cruel in turn? Did that make you want to...be less, just to get even?"

"Oh, yeah, tons of times. I got into a lotta fights because of the bullying, and I didn't have any problems fighting dirty to make them pay for what they'd done or said to me. But after a while, I figured out that I became even worse than them, and I kind of hated the effort it took to _be _mean, y'know? I didn't really want anything to do with them, but I was makin' myself be awful just to make them feel bad for makin' me feel bad. So I figured this all out by the time I graduated, and got to be a new man in college."

She was looking at him now, expression surprised. Natasha tucked her hair behind her ear again, and Clint bit down on the urge to reach over and run his hands through her hair, completely messing it up. He absolutely loved her hair, the color, the style, the way it was spunky and fierce, and yet sleek and mature at the same time. But they were talking right now, not pawing all over each other, so he kept one hand on the arm rest and one hand on his glass and everything was good.

"That's...very big of you."

"No, that's just the lazy bit of me. The good is all incidental."

Natasha sipped her drink, casting him a smirk over the rim of her glass. She set it back down on her coaster, then rested her chin on interlaced fingers.

"What else?"

"Hm? Now I get to choose?"

"Yes, what do _you_ think I should know about you?" He frowned at her, because this was _much_ harder than just answering whatever questions popped into her head. Now he had to really think and try not to spill too much too soon, but also let her know what she wanted.

"Uhm...hm. I dunno, I...okay, well, this is important."

"What is it?" Natasha asked, looking not _eager,_ exactly, but definitely expectant.

"Mm, well, a few years back...I had a divorce."

Natasha's eyebrows jumped up, giving her a sudden look of complete shock. He forced himself not to smile too much, because this was serious and she would only get huffy, but it was kind of hilarious seeing her knocked off center.

"Oh?" she asked, clearly trying to buy herself time to recover. Clint nodded, and reached for another cookie. She caught his hand, giving him a look between a glare and a smirk. To her credit, only now did Natasha's eyes flick over his ring finger, as if worried she would suddenly find a wedding band there. She looked back at him, shaking her head. There was something in her eyes that had changed though, just a little bit. It suddenly made Clint feel, in comparison to Natasha, very, very old.

"Oh _no, _you don't get a cookie until you explain this one."

"Alright, fine. Her name was Bobbi, and we were married for a few years before it all fell apart."

"Why?"

"We were just too young and stupid to make something like that work," he sighed. "We got married not long after college, we were poor, we had debt, we didn't have family we could really rely on, and we were bothso freakin' _stubborn._ We couldn't back down from _anything, _and then we'd start fighting. It was _stupid _stuff, too. She wanted the room cool, I wanted to watch sports, she liked dressing up when we went out to eat, stuff like that. Everythin' turned into an argument in the end, and finally we just grew up and realized that we _never_ shoulda been married."

"So how is it now? Do you two still—"

"Like each other? Oh, yeah. We're pretty lucky," he reflected. "We're still friends, somehow. We just couldn't a been spouses."

Natasha nodded, not looking quite impressed. Clint couldn't help but laugh at that, raising an eyebrow.

"What, you _want_ it to have been messy and awful?"

"_No,_" she said, flushing a little. "I just—that's it? You just..._fell apart_? Just cut it off while you were kind of ahead?"

"Mm-hm. It's actually one of the better, more grown up decisions I've ever made. I didn't hold on because of pride or whatever, and that helped us grow up. Bobbi's moved on to better things, has a boyfriend from Pennsylvania, I think, and I've...well, I've moved on, too." He gave her a mild smile, wondering if it was necessary to say that things were better for him, too. It seemed unfair, though, because Natasha and Bobbi were drastically different people, and could _never _be accurately compared.

Natasha watched him for a moment, eyes serious as she contemplated what he had said. She picked up her glass, fingers tracing patterns in it and making the condensation run together and drip onto her pant leg.

"So," Clint said after a pause, "do I get my cookie now?"

Natasha broke into a smile as she glanced up at him, returning her eyes to her glass before she gave a brief nod. He reached over and grabbed one, watching her as he bit into it.

"What about you?" he asked. "What kind of joys are in _your_ past love life?"

Natasha gave a gentle sigh through her nose, not looking away from her glass of juice.

"Not many," she said, and it struck him, the way she was so accepting of the fact that she hadn't had much happiness in love. "Things were always too...complex for that."

"What kind of complex?"

"Not-really-caring-about-each-other complex. He and I...were very selfish people at that time."

"'He and I'? So it's one guy?"

"For the most. Nothing else was really important." The words should have made Clint at least _a little_ concerned, because he'd dated girls after they had found Their One and Only, and it was always messy and uncomfortable and typically ended up with him being the bad guy, and sometimes even getting a black eye. But the way Natasha said it, with a reflective and slightly embarrassed smile, and a tone that said that he was just about her only confidant on the matter, soothed Clint's worries before they even began.

"I don't know, we said we were dating, but it was never...we were more like partners. We'd get into trouble together and we'd haul each other out, and it worked. It just wasn't _enough._"

"I can't exactly picture you as the Bonnie and Clyde type." Natasha laughed and nodded, glancing around at her nice apartment, with its vaulted ceilings, giant airy windows, pristine light grey walls, and stunning collection of art. Clint didn't mention that she would have been a much more _refined _sort of criminal, sneaking into museums and disappearing from mansions with exquisite antiquities under her arm, but that was probably because they both totally knew it was true.

"Yes, well, I was a different person then," she said, resting her cheek on her hand. "I was much more..._incorrigible_ than I would like to admit. And he loved the thrill, so we ended up doing plenty of stupid things together. I don't know, he saw things differently than I did. To me, he was..." She trailed off, seeming to turn self conscious.

"What? He was...what?"

"A muse," she admitted, mouth pursing off to the side as if to say she wasn't proud of it, but there it was. Clint stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Your _muse_? Really? Like, that's a real thing?"

"_Yes,_ it's _real,_" she huffed, just like he had guessed (Clint absolutely reveled in the fact that he knew her well enough to call it, and it was almost enough to outweigh his regret at how _imperious_ she was about to become). "People can gather inspiration from anywhere, Mr. Barton, and it's not exactly strange for it to be a person you know well."

"Yeah, but, that's for _Walt Whitman,_ or _Picasso, _you know, old guys like that. I mean, it's not only guys that get muses, but people back at the turn of the century or something." He paused, frowning at her. "It just kind of feels weirdly sensual."

"That's it, you don't get any more cookies," Natasha said, scooting the plate away from him. He protested, trying to snag at least two more before it was out of his reach, but Natasha waved him away. He couldn't help but laugh again, which earned him a glare that was determined to be unamused.

"Do you have a painting of him, your muse?"

"Yes."

He looked at her, pointedly waiting for her to get up and show him one. She heaved another sigh and rolled her eyes. Natasha got up and stalked over to her stack of paintings on the floor. He heard her stand still for a moment, and Clint leaned over the arm of his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of her around the small wall sectioning off the room. He saw only a small part of her, staring down at the paintings before her, hesitating, hesitating.

She seemed to steel herself, then leaned over and picked up a painting. By the time she walked back into the living room, Clint had settled back into his previous position, like he had never moved in the first place.

"Here," she said casually, holding out the canvas to him. Clint sat up, examining the painting.

It wasn't very big, a low rectangle that was maybe two feet by one foot, but the picture was striking. It was of a man, painted from the hips up. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, the sleeves tugged back enough to show his wrists, and the buttons at his collar were undone enough to show his collarbones. He was hunched slightly, like he was ducking to look at something, or maybe was in the process of standing up. His hand was at his mouth in what could have been him wiping something away, or a gesture of intently focusing on something. The man's skin was deathly pale, almost a pale blue, but the bits of pink on his finger tips, the edge of his nose, and lazy red of his mouth made him seem painfully alive, bitten by a cold he wasn't dressed for. The picture cut off just above his mouth, the bottom of his nose a question at the top of the canvas.

The painting wasn't like any of the others Clint had seen by Natasha. This was dark, blacks and blues mixing to make a striking image. It was also messier, the strokes not ending in the familiar taper, but dragging away to nothing, bits of paint caught on the ridges of the canvas. Overall, the picture seemed chaotic and dark, beautiful and yet dangerous.

"He's a figure, I'll give you that," Clint said, giving a smile. Natasha looked at him, nervousness in her eyes.

"Yes, he was." Natasha fell back a step, her calves leaning against the coffee table.

"Thank you. For showing me that," he said, sensing that it hadn't been the easiest thing for her to do. But Natasha shrugged like it was nothing, lowering the picture.

"So...you use many models?"

"I did, back then. My uncle encouraged my painting, and went to great lengths to help me improve."

"Your uncle, and not your parents?"

"My uncle was the one raising me, most of my childhood."

Clint nodded, new, more invasive questions perching on his tongue. He wondered about this uncle, and if he knew anything about Natasha's probable art theft. Her old boyfriend-muse-guy-thing probably was in on the crime, but how far did it extend? Whose idea had it been? Had the heist been his idea, or hers, or someone else's completely? Clint bit his tongue, though, reminding himself that he didn't _actually _know if Natasha _was _an art thief.

"I guess that's where the artistic influence came from. He didn't paint as much, at least, not in a realistic way. He was more into abstract or modern art, but what he _loved_ was sculpting."

"Was he good?"

"Very good. He sold his pieces all over the world, not just in Russia. He had so much discipline, it was amazing. Once he set his mind onto something, that was it. It would always be finished."

"That's something I could probably use," Clint chuckled. Natasha gave a smile, but he noticed that the look did not touch her eyes.

"Did you like Russia?"

"Parts of it," Natasha said, turning to put the painting away. "It was very beautiful where I lived, but I prefer the climate here. The people there...they paid so much more attention to the delicacy of things, the art. Everything was bigger, grander, larger than life. And here, it's all so _clean,_" she said, returning to stand in front of him.

"_Clean_?"

"Mm, yes. Like in the sky scrapers, they're impressive, but it's all cold, concrete and sharp glass. It's all very straightforward, cut and dry. Americans are blunt, and hammer their way to what they want, and they forget to appreciate what's around. It's all about the next buck, the next prize, the next big thing."

"I can see that," Clint said. "When did you move here?"

"About four years ago. Would you like a refill?" Natasha asked, gesturing at his cup. He nodded, noticing the abrupt subject change. He let out a slow breath, sensing this was where she would stop for the day, that he had tapped out his number of personal questions. A part of him felt a little disappointed, because there was still_ so much to know, _but he took another breath, and waited, waited, waited.

As Natasha refilled his drink, Clint ran a hand over his eyes, mulling over what she had told him. There was a lot of anxiety and pain coiled in her words, making him think that perhaps her life hadn't been as glorious as he had earlier imagined. Someone or something had stalked her steps, waiting and watching and wearing her down, making her the closed off person she was today. It could have been her ex, or her uncle, or something else entirely, but he could tell it had caused lasting damage.

"So, how old were you when you moved from Iowa?" Natasha asked, tone artificially light.

"I was about twenty-five," he said, ruffling his hair. "I wanted out of my small home town, and New York just ended up being the place."

"Did you marry Bobbi here or in Iowa?"

"In Iowa. One of the first things we did was move here."

As they continued the small talk, Clint couldn't help but think how _thin_ it all felt. After tugging back bits of their masks and mystery, after showing a bit of their souls willingly, without coercion and without suffering, the conversation felt empty. They were back to talking but not really saying anything, tiptoeing and pretending.

Sound cut out on Clint's right side, and he groaned. He hated it whenever this happened. It felt like someone was patting cotton onto his face, stuffing his ear to the brim. It made him antsy and uncomfortable, but he clenched his hands a few times and worked through it.

"What is it?" Natasha asked, pausing in her act of being a good host.

"My hearing aid just died," he said, leaning over his seat to look at her. He turned his head to hear her a little bit better, noting her concerned expression and allowing himself a quiet moment of delight over it.

"Oh. Do I need to talk louder?" Natasha asked, and he shook his head.

"No, I can still hear out of the other one, and it should be fine when you come sit down." Natasha nodded, and a few moments later, she was returning with their filled cups. He thanked her as he took his, taking a quick sip before setting it on the coffee table. She set her cup beside his, then paused standing up. It seemed like she was reluctant to sit back down and return to the conversation after having stopped opening up for the day, and was now treading water, trying to find a new direction to go in.

"Let me...let me go get..." she began, turning to walk past him again. Natasha didn't bother to finish her sentence, instead trailing off into convenient and ambiguous silence. She edged past him, Clint watching her go, but at the last second, he reached out. He caught hold of her hand, saying, "_Wait,_" and making her turn.

Natasha looked down at him, and then he gently pulled her to him. She stopped in front of him, lips pressed into an uncertain line.

"Wait," he repeated, looking up into her green eyes. They were curious and yet cautious, unsure as to what he was going to ask of her next. He took a breath, not really sure what he wanted, only knowing that he couldn't let her leave and wander off into that world where her main comfort and defense was distance.

He pulled her hand towards him, raising his other hand to hover over her hip. Natasha leaned back at this, clearly on the edge of balking, but he moved slowly, looking up into her face the entire time, and letting her see exactly what he was trying to do. Natasha flinched when he touched her side, then allowed herself to be settled on his knee. She looked at the arm of the chair, hands clasped tight as she tried to battle her way through complete discomfort.

"Natasha," he said softly, and she turned to look at him. Clint slipped his hand into hers, carefully sliding his fingers in between hers. Natasha pressed her lips together, uncertainty almost looking like fear on her face. He leaned forward, and she mirrored him, movements hesitant until they were almost forehead to forehead.

"Please, tell me, did you...is that Vereshchagin real?" he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips before he had time to think. He clenched his teeth, because that was just _great, _he had gone and said probably the worst thing possible. He knew how she closed down at the mention of that stupid painting. He _knew_ how wary she became, and yet, just when he was making a little leeway, he had gone and taken a damn _hatchet_ to the beehive.

To his surprise, Natasha didn't pull back, or scowl, or look away. That uncertain, open expression on her face stayed, her eyes scanning his features. She bit her lip and took a shaky breath, then asked, "Why do you want to know?"

He looked at her for a moment, a thousand different answers stacking on his tongue, ones that he thought maybe she would want to hear, but the words that left his mouth were, "I don't know."

Natasha stared at him for a moment, then glanced away.

"Can you hear out of this ear?" she asked, gesturing to his right ear. He held his breath and nodded, not sure if the moment was gone and he had missed his chance. She bit her lip, and for a second, Clint seriously considered ducking away from the question, instead leaving those extra few inches and kissing her like he had wanted to since the beginning of the conversation. It would have been easy, just a little bit of courage and then they could pretend like this had never happened, they could wait until they knew each other a little better, trusted each other a little more.

But then Natasha let her breath out in a soft huff, and leaned in so that her mouth was by his ear. Natasha's breath was warm on the side of his face as she spoke, her words a muted whisper he barely heard.

"The Vereshchagin is real."

Clint stared past the waves of red hair brushing against his cheek, expecting his stomach to turn cold at her words. They were a confession, really, because the silent words that went with them were enough to have her convicted and thrown in jail.

_The Vereshchagin is real. I stole it and replaced it with a fake._

Yet his stomach didn't turn cold. He just felt a bloom of warmth, because she had trusted him, she had opened up to him. Out of everyone else in the world, she had picked _him._

"Why...why keep it?"

"Because it reminded me that even though people find paintings and portraits to be perfect depictions of history, to be markers of fact...paintings can tell the truth or they can tell a lie. What you see on a canvas...is not necessarily real. You can't take it on faith alone, you have to know."

Clint didn't ask how she had taken such meaning from the painting, or why it was important. He didn't ask how she had taken it, or if it was the only painting she had stolen, or if anyone else knew. He just sat in silence, wondering what he was supposed to do with the sectioned off parts of her he had craved so much.

After a moment, he realized that Natasha was holding her breath, waiting for his response. He didn't say anything or look at her, just shifted his arms a little. Clint pulled her into what he supposed could be called a hug, his forehead resting against her collar bone. Natasha was frozen for a moment, then carefully settled her arms around his neck. He pressed his cheek into her skin, and closed his eyes when he felt her rest her chin on the top of his head.

* * *

_AN I so want to write a million and one stories about Natasha's adventures as a con artist with her uncle and her 'mysterious' boo thang, but I honestly have no idea as to where to start with a real con story. If I'm being honest, though, I imagine it would all be a genderbent version of White Collar :'D_


	5. close enough to honest

_AN ahahaha ah yes this story is still a thing /headdesk _

_I had a lot of fun messing around in Clint's headspace here, because I don't think I've ever written him quite so SULKY before. It was an awesome challenge, and I think I did an okay job ;)_

* * *

The hard grit of concrete was painful against Clint's head, but he stayed still and squinted up at the sky. He was laying on the tiny thing that constituted his balcony, legs hooked over the side of the rail. He had started out standing, but eventually he had found himself laying down, lazily finishing off a cigarette as he tried to not stare at the sun.

Clint didn't really want to be at his apartment. He wanted to be anywhere else, wanted to be doing anything else, but he had to wait for a phone call from a man named Walter. If Walter gave him the go ahead, then Clint would be able to go about his business and not have to look back. If not, then he would be forced to tender foot it around a truck full of merchandise, sweating and looking over his shoulder every five seconds. So there he stayed, contorting himself on his balcony and trying not to get ashes on his face whenever he took a drag.

He was also _really_ trying not to think about what he was doing, because he had sworn to himself that _last_ time would actually be the last time. But at this point, he was already neck deep in the whole transaction, and if he suddenly tried to back out on the sale of a truck full of questionable blue jeans, then Clint would just be screwing himself even more than usual. He might as well help get rid of the evidence and have done with it.

Clint really hated this part of his job. When he was actually doing something, picking locks or dodging the police with a bunch of hot merchandise in his trunk, he wasn't thinking about anything but getting the job done. This, though, this down time, this lag, it was awful. He wasn't doing anything halfway productive, but was instead twiddling his thumbs and wasting a huge amount of time because he had to wait on inconsiderate assholes that couldn't just leave a message.

If he had time after Walter's call, he might stop by Natasha's. It had been almost a week since he had seen her last, and though they had spoken on the phone, and texted a few times, it wasn't really the same. She might give him some grief for his bad mood, but she might _also_ curl up next to him on the couch, so that she was practically on his lap and just _stay_ there, soaking up his heat and _daring_ him to try not being a gentleman. Natasha wasn't really one to hand out kisses or blatant affection on a plate, but her quiet, intimate manner completely made up for it. It was tempting and charming and really just made him want to kiss her all the more, but she made waiting worth it.

Despite how much he enjoyed all of the borderline cuddling she might do, what Clint _really _wanted was to have one of their serious, important grown-up talks. Unfortunately, Natasha was even more stingy with her past than her affection, so he knew that he would have to sit on his hands and wait for her to bring it up (because there was just no way in hell he was about to start a conversation that would devolve into 'Oh, by the way, I _also _steal things').

And yet…he may have mentally bitched and moaned and squirmed at having to actually tell Natasha about himself at the time, but Clint delighted in the confidence they had shown each other, during their first real conversation together. Sitting in her living room and being _honest _with each other, brutally, completely, unceasingly honest...it was the kind of thing that made a person become an addict. He kept finding himself craving more, wanting to know about her life as a person and an artist and a thief, and even sometimes wanting to tell her about himself. But every time he found the words tripping onto his tongue…he pulled himself back. Clint knew talking about himself was bad for obvious reasons, and he knew that he had been wildly lucky when he had asked about the Vereshchagin, and she decided to not kick him out of her house, much less speak on the subject. He didn't want to push his luck, not now.

Clint took another drag of his cigarette, practically spitting the smoke back into the air. The more he thought about things, the more he realized how unlikely they were to go his way. He just really wanted his phone to ring so he could stop thinking, and get to _doing_ something. He wanted his phone to ring he wanted his phone to ring he wanted his phone to _ring_—

It didn't ring.

Clint waited another twenty aggravating minutes, in which time he had finished his cigarette, placed his phone on his forehead, and started picking out pictures in the clouds. When it rang, it vibrated off his forehead, and nearly clattered to the balcony.

"_Finally_," he grunted, answering the call and putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Barton. I got a call from Mendez. He says that the whole thing is lined up, that you just gotta take the truck down to the shop and get yourself a pretty penny."

"Wha—_I_ gotta drive the truck down there?" He sat up, scowling. "What the hell's the point of a middle man, then, Walter? I've been there enough as is. Just because he couldn't bother himself to get up an' walk out of his office to meet me, doesn't mean I should risk my neck."

"I_ know,_ I know, I don't like it neither. His rules, though. Mendez won't do business with someone who doesn't go all the way through. Plus you've never actually met the guy, yeah? Then he wants to get a read on you, face to face. He's got some thing about reading people, or whatever."

Clint rolled his eyes, and grit his teeth. _Typical._ Things couldn't just go nice and neat, could they? Every basic instinct he had was screaming that he shouldn't do it, but he _needed the money._ This shipment alone was enough to take care of him for a month, as long as he didn't do something extra stupid and blow it all.

"So he'll have the money ready? I won't hafta wait around for another shipment to sell before I get paid, or some shit, right?"

"Nah, he says he got it. And Barton, trust me, for all his nit picks, Mendez is a good guy. Someone you definitely wanna be in bed with."

"Right. Thanks for calling."

Clint rolled his eyes as he hung up, and hoisted himself to his feet. He hated having to work with fences he didn't know. They always thought the world revolved on their time and their preferences, everyone else be damned.

He left his apartment and climbed into the truck he had parked a block or so away, and drove to the store. He parked in the alley around back, where a large door allowed entrance for shipping trucks like the one he was driving. Clint hopped out of the car, and entered the building, calling out for Mendez.

The shop wasn't really a _shop,_ but more of a small warehouse. It was filled with neat lines of shelving filled with an assortment of items. It was like walking into the cross of a bulk store and a consignment shop, as everything seemed to have a distinctly second hand feel to it.

"Barton, that you?"

A man appeared towards the front of one of the aisles, and walked back to him. He was tall, and his face was dark with deep lines that spoke of a lot of hard work and more than a few fist fights. His black hair was long enough to pull back into a pony tail, though a few strands had come loose and were falling around his face.

Clint gave a cool nod to the man, but gave in to the hand offered him.

"Clint Barton, yeah."

"Charlie Mendez, good to meet you."

"Yeah, likewise," Clint said, hoping his smile didn't look as annoyed as he felt. Of course the man's smile seemed to be glued to his face, now that Clint had a truck of goods in the back. He wondered if Mendez was just smiling to piss him off more.

"Walt said these were new?"

"Mm-hm, fresh stock."

"_Excellent._ That I can use. There was no problem getting it through, right?"

"Nope, not a bit. I just don't like having that much on me, y'know?"

"I get it, I get it."

They stopped in front of the truck, and Clint opened the back to reveal the stacks of jeans. Mendez gave a soft whistle, then pulled himself inside of the truck.

"That's great, Barton, real great. All sorts a places I can send these," he said absently, pulling a pair off the top of a stack.

"Thanks. You need me to help unload them, or...?"

"What? Oh, nah, I got some boys to deal with that." He whistled again, this time loud enough to call a man to the door, and he waved at him.

"Mike, you go get a couple a other guys to unload this thing, pronto." The man nodded, then disappeared back into the shop.

"Yeah, so they'll take care of all a this, and drop off the truck. You picked it up from the usual place, right?"

"Mason's, yeah."

"So, you'll be wantin' to be paid," Mendez said, dropping back down to the ground beside Clint.

"Won't say no to that," Clint said, giving another thin smile. He only had so much time for the chit-chat today.

Mendez chuckled and pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket. Clint took it without a word, and restrained himself from checking it over. Walter had been clear that Clint was _not _to question the man's honesty, if he wanted to keep doing business. Clint noticed Mendez's eyes on him until the money vanished in Clint's pocket, his smile glassy. Seemed Walter had been right.

"Thanks for this, really, but I gotta go." Clint shook Mendez's hand again, and quickly headed towards the nearest subway entrance. The first thing he planned to do was get rid of the thousands of dollars in his pocket, and then he would be off to Natasha's.

Natasha's smile tasted like sunshine when she opened the door. She immediately complained that _he_ tasted like an ashtray, to which he offered a careless grin. His bad mood was already falling away. Her place was starting to feel more like home than his own apartment, which he figured wasn't really a bad thing. His place, for one, didn't look like it came out of a magazine, perfect and expensive. It also didn't have Natasha in it.

"How are you?" she asked, heading to the living room. The door to the balcony was open, letting in a soft breeze.

"Good enough," he sighed, flopping into a chair. "Been jumpin' through hoops all day, but some are like that, y'know?"

"What for?"

"Work," he said, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes. He vaguely heard the muffled sound of Natasha sitting on the couch, and picking up a book.

"What happened?"

"Oh, just some people being idiots. I had to wait around for them to finish the job, which wasn't really a problem, I just like getting my stuff _done. _I don't wanna dick around for no reason."

He could feel Natasha's mild disapproval at the phrase, to which he cracked open an eye and tossed her a cheeky smile. She gave a mock huff, and looked back at the sketchbook in her lap.

Now that her own workload had eased, she was constantly scribbling in the thing. He had only managed a glance at the pages in passing, a few snatches of people walking, the side of a building, a cluster of what looked like Natasha's hands. She was strangely protective of the thing, casually hiding the pages whenever he passed, or shifting it underneath something to send the message that he was not to look at it.

Natasha's phone rang, and she stood to go get it. He listened to her speaking, the words too quiet to make any sense. She moved into the kitchen, searching through the drawer for something.

Clint glanced over at her. She had her back turned, and appeared to be writing something down.

He eased up out of his chair, and moved over to the sketchbook. It was a simple little thing, about the size of an average reading book with a black cover. He picked it up, scanning the edge of the pages. Little marks scattered across them, from pencils, markers, and what looked like paint in a few places. Several of the pages were buckled, making misshapen gaps against the other pages.

Clint opened the book. He frowned when he saw the blank page, and flipped back. A pencil sketch of a

bookshelf greeted him, the lines delicate and neat. The wall behind it was a dark grey, making the pale spines of the books pop out. He glanced over his shoulder at the book case against the wall. The likeness was good, though he noticed that it had probably been drawn a few weeks ago. One of the bowls in the picture hadn't been on the bookshelf since April.

The book was pulled from his hands, making him jump. He snapped his head around to see Natasha, walking around the coffee table, the sketchbook in her hands.

"That wasn't an invitation," she said. Her voice was mild, but he could _feel _something underneath it. She wasn't upset that had he looked, but she clearly wasn't thrilled, either.

Natasha put the sketchbook on her work desk, then came to sit back down on the couch.

"Are you going to sit?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Clint glanced down at himself. He was still standing between the coffee table and the couch. He sat down beside her.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask," he said, looking at her. Natasha kept her gaze on her hands. He paused, then said, "It was a good, though. The bookshelf."

"It was alright," she corrected, but her voice sounded absent. "I was bored, and I needed to practice my still lifes."

"And?"

"I got practice," she said, turning to smile at him. Clint grinned back.

There was a slight pause, then Clint slung an arm around her, and rested his head against her shoulder. Natasha didn't say anything, but he was certain her could feel her relaxing into him.

"Why don't you draw faces?" he asked. Natasha turned her head to look at him, apparently taken by surprise.

"Hm?"

"You never draw faces," he said, gesturing at her sketchbook. "Don't paint them, either. I was just wondering why."

Natasha sighed and shifted in her seat, clearly stalling for time.

"I used to," she admitted, voice sounding distant. "When I was younger, before I came here, I used to paint portraits, all the time."

"Did something happen?"

"Not really. I just…lost interest. The body holds just as much expression as the face, and it can tell an even bigger story. That's what really caught my attention. Being able to tell someone's story, just by showing how they hold themselves."

The words stacked behind his teeth, but Clint resolutely did not ask her what story his body told, with its scars and scrapes, and the way he never quite grew out of edging around big, violent men.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about something so messy as his past. He wanted the clean, concise opportunities Natasha offered, he wanted the peace. He wanted the happiness.

"When I painted people's faces, they looked sad," Natasha confessed, the words coming out quickly, as if she might lose her nerve. "They looked very…they looked sad."

Clint didn't say anything, wondering at the way her voice caught at the end.

"That picture of your muse didn't really have a face, either," he said, realization dawning over him. Natasha shifted, but didn't say anything. He took that as a signal to not press the subject.

He had gotten the impression that she had painted that particular picture before she moved to New York. Natasha must have noticed her paintings looked unhappy for a while, then, if she had stopped showing their faces that long ago.

Clint wondered just what had happened, to make her so sad.

* * *

_AN Clint, buddy, you've got some problems. Probably want to get those checked out. Thankfully, Nat seems to also have her own bundle, so at least you'll have company :'D_

_One thing that I really liked about this chapter was that I got to show just how **selfish** Clint is. I feel like that's a pretty strong undercurrent of his character, even though he practically kills himself to help everyone else out. He wants what he wants, and, at least for this story, he has learned that if he doesn't grab it, it won't be given to him. One thing that he hasn't had a lot of in particular has been positive relationships, so he is pretty darn eager to make it work with Natasha, even if it means not being really honest with her._


End file.
